A Smaller Hell

by A. J. Reid

  Rejection.

  Dismissal.

  Severance.

  ‘I love you.’

  My head felt as if someone had just poured ice cold fizzy water into it and bounced it off a wall. ‘You ...’

  ‘I love you. That ok with you?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I answered, struggling to find the right words.

  Rachel shrugged and beckoned for my hand across the table. ‘Well, you don't seem horrified by the idea, so ...’ she said. ‘There's something else.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I know Doyle was responsible for my father's disappearance. That’s why I came to the store: to find out what happened to him.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  Rachel handed me a piece of paper which I unfolded carefully. It was a letter addressed to her father.

  David,

  You told me today that we couldn’t be together because you could never leave your family.

  If you don’t use the enclosed plane ticket tonight, tomorrow morning, police officers will search your house and find evidence of something that will ensure that you never see your wife and daughter again.

  You will always be in my heart, David, and for that reason I wish you a safe and speedy journey. I hope that one day we'll meet again under different circumstances.

  D

  Rachel’s emerald eyes were fixed on the chequered, plastic table cover.

  ‘Rachel, why didn't you …’

  ‘I received it a month ago. It’s the first I’ve heard from him since he disappeared,’ she said, turning her eyes from the table to me.

  ‘I can't do it alone. I have to find him.’

  ‘Don't you think your mother ...’

  ‘I don’t want my mother to know,’ she said. ‘I still hear her sitting in her bedroom crying at night and getting up before sunrise to hide her empty wine bottles.’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you.’

  She hugged me, knocking the salt off the table. Once she'd calmed down and we'd gathered up our stuff to leave, I made sure to take a pinch of the salt lying on the floor and throw it over my shoulder. A large trucker received a thorough dusting on his shaven, tattooed head, with some of the salt settling in the hairy folds on his huge neck. He stood up and towered over me, at which point I apologised and explained that we had just received some bad news. All I could think of was how much his head looked like an egg. Rachel apologised, while I offered to pay for the trucker's breakfast by holding out a tenner, which he snatched out of my hand. Two kids on a nearby table began throwing salt at each other, much to the chagrin of their mother. I said sorry to the diners and the staff for the disturbance, and left amid the surprisingly harsh reprimands of an old lady who hit me with her cane on the way out.

  Crew Only

  The sea air was bitter on the top deck of the ferry, so we huddled together for warmth.

  ‘Do you want to go inside and sit in the bar?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I love it out here,’ Rachel replied.

  It was easy to see why. The cityscapes on either side of us looked much more romantic from this perspective. The sun was setting behind the snow-covered observatory to the south, and to the east, stars were already becoming visible above the glow of the city. From the streets, it was impossible to see the stars once the bars and nightclubs opened. The neon fog of debauchery descended on everyone, whether they were out partying or not.

  ‘You never did tell me where you got to last night,’ I said.

  ‘I went to Doyle's house,’ she said. ‘With the girls from Cosmetics.’

  ‘Tell me Graziano wasn't there.’

  ‘He wasn't there.’

  I held Rachel close and imagined that the ferry was transporting us to another reality where strangers smile at each other for no reason, where the air always smells salty and fresh, where the music of gulls and old jazz records through barnacled speakers blends in key and where secret lovers could lose themselves in each other without fear of discovery.

  When the great ropes had been tossed from the deck to the dock hands and the announcements had been made by the captain, the other passengers began heading towards the exit. We followed the crowd to the lower deck, whereupon I saw the police waiting on the dock. They were face-checking everyone who was disembarking from the ferry, even asking some for identification.

  ‘Rachel, you have to go. If I try to get off this ferry now, we might never see each other again.’

  She looked at the police checking IDs and held my hand. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘There's no time for this. You have to go. Please.’

  ‘I'm staying with you,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Christ. Down here,’ I said, opening a metal door which read Crew Only in stencilled spray paint. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all too busy trying to cram themselves into the bottleneck of the gangway. Satisfied that we had gone unnoticed, I followed Rachel into the darkness.

  The hot stink of diesel was nauseating, but we had no choice other than to stay put until the ferry began its return journey. We waited until every last footstep had died away, expecting to hear an influx of new passengers embark, but no such influx came, and so our hopes of merging into the crowd withered. Ten minutes passed before we heard the gangway go up and the engines die. Chains rattled, orders were given and eventually, all that remained was the sound of the gulls and the waves lapping at the sides of the ferry.

  ‘Is it safe?’ Rachel whispered in the darkness, still holding my hand, which felt as if it hand been fused to hers by adrenaline.

  ‘I don't know. Do you hear anyone?’

  Even the gulls had quietened down, now that the snack-laden humanfolk had vacated the quayside.

  ‘Let's get out of here. I can hardly breathe,’ I said.

  Rachel pulled me back.

  ‘Did you kill someone?’ she asked.

  The question thundered through my head in the darkness like a freight train through a tunnel. It was as if the hands of every clock and watch in the world had been dipped in treacle. ‘I don't know,’ I replied, thinking about Chapman lying in the mud of the scrapyard, his eyes rolled back in their sockets. ‘I just don’t know.’

  Once I’d told Rachel everything, rather than run a mile, she reached out for my hand and pulled me close to her.

  ‘We need to get to the old security tapes,’ Rachel said. ‘Doyle keeps them in her library.’

  ‘Breaking into Doyle’s house? Yeah, right.’

  ‘I want my father back,’ she said, absent-mindedly picking the paint from a rust spot on the heavy metal door between us and the outside world. ‘Then I want her to pay for what she’s done to my family.’

  ‘So you want revenge?’

  ‘One thing at a time.’

  Taboos

  Once again, I found myself in the stuffy waiting room I had passed out in a month before. Three days away from Christmas Eve, I hoped that, just as this room had marked my entrance into Doyle's domain, it might also signify my exit.

  The Christmas decorations twinkled in the square below, working hard to be seen through the grey wind and the sooty snowflakes. Workmen in high-visibility jackets and giddy teenage girls lined up in the bakery for hot rolls and Cornish pasties.

  ‘Come in, Mr. Black.’

  I heaved open the door, careful not to touch any of the brass with bare hands, as we'd been instructed. Graziano leant forward in his chair, the driver’s hat lolling over his eyes, its dark peak hiding his face, as usual.

  ‘How are you enjoying working for Tanner's Fine Goods Emporium, Mr. Black?’

  ‘You mean Tanner's Department Store?’

  ‘I do, but technically, the title I used is the correct one; the original one. And I used it for a reason,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘We are a traditional organisation. When someone disrupts the order of things, the system doesn't work. Is there anything I, or Mr. Graziano, can do to help you settle in?’

  �
�No.’

  ‘Did you give any more thought to my invitation?’ she asked, tapping her pen on her teeth.

  ‘You mean your ultimatum?’ I said.

  She feigned hurt by frowning.

  ‘Your threat?’ I added.

  She clutched her chest theatrically. ‘It’s all for your benefit, Mr. Black.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for any of this,’ I said.

  ‘Neither did I, yet here we are,’ she said, undoing two of my shirt buttons and slipping her glossy red talons inside. She leaned in so close that her moist lips touched my ear. ‘I don’t believe in sin, Mr. Black.’

  ‘So … you're godless,’ I said. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe in God,’ she replied, moving her hand down to my beltline. ‘It’s just that I have more money than he does.’

  ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?’

  She withdrew her hand and slinked back into her throne. ‘I hear Milton’s popular in prison libraries these days.’

  I looked up at Commander Tanner, whose gaze was fixed upon me, waiting to see what I would say. ‘I love her,’ I said, buttoning up my shirt.

  She shuffled a few documents on her desk to hide her disgust. ‘I have a special assignment for you these last few days, Mr. Black. Tomorrow morning, report to the fourth floor. They'll provide you with the necessary clothing.’

  Hell’s Grotto

  The lift doors opened to a lit walkway, and up above, constellations of LEDs glowing and twinkling. A coconut-scented mist shrouded everything, making it difficult to see into the darkness afoot. As I progressed along the green-lit path, I came to a forked junction, marked by a large wooden signpost with one arrow pointing to Tanner's Fine Goods Emporium, and another to the North Pole. The dry ice wafted around my feet and the fake snow lodged itself in my hair as I stood before the sign, quietly regressing back to my childhood.

  I tried to remember what I had asked for when I was a kid, but my trip back in time was gently interrupted by a soft hand slipping into mine. I was surprised to find Rachel standing next to me, dressed as a slutty elf. I looked her up and down, taking in the thigh-length stitched boots, the mini-skirt, the straining corset and the pointy hat, uncertain whether to be aroused or disturbed. The idea of leering fathers and their grubby sons, groping and slobbering over Rachel all day made me uncomfortable.

  ‘I know. The outfit. It's bad, isn't it?’ Rachel said, her nose red from the cold.

  ‘Any ideas yet?’ I whispered.

  ‘I thought we might go to that place on the docks tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, across the water,’ she said, widening her eyes and rolling them towards the surveillance camera.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, trying not to look at the black eyeball. ‘The Spanish place?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Rachel said.

  I looked down at the red and white padded suit in the huge wooden chest, which reeked of old cotton, tobacco and brandy.

  Umbrella

  Miss Allister startled me as she wandered into the now deserted grotto. She was dressed for the snowstorm raging outside, her black umbrella hanging from her arm. Her coat was black and sternly buttoned up to her neck, with an expensive-looking antique brooch on her lapel. It was made of dull pewter with a red jewel sparkling in the middle. The detailing resembled some kind of masonic symbol.

  ‘I see you've found your calling.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I muttered, packing the red suit into my rucksack.

  Miss Allister pressed the sharp silver tip of her umbrella gently into my chest, right over my heart.

  ‘One thing for which you can never be forgiven is turning your back on love,’ she said. ‘It’s a sin.’

  Miss Allister held her handkerchief to her mouth, and raised her other hand to my face. I tried to put my arm around her to console her, but she shooed me away with her handkerchief and walked away back to the lift, using her brolly as a walking stick.

  I stood alone amongst the dying fairy lights and the dispersing dry ice. Christmas songs were still playing in my head and my face still itched from the nylon beard. As I picked up my rucksack and headed for the door, my mobile beeped.

  Rachel texted. Meet me same place as last time by the ferry. 11 p.m.

  Joyride

  Rachel and I stood just beyond one of the circles of light cast by the snow-covered lamps, struggling to hear each other above the churning river and high wind. Her face was invisible beneath the furry hood of her jacket and I wondered whether I was standing in the middle of a trap. I was embarrassed at my own paranoia when she removed her hood beneath the final circle of light before reaching me, and her hair shone unmistakably blonde and elfin. We kissed sea spray and snow on to each others’ lips.

  ‘I think I was followed,’ she said, leading me down the floating pontoon. ‘At least we can see them coming from here. No other way to reach us.’

  ‘No way to escape, either.’

  ‘Do you think you could take Graziano?’ she asked, her eyes crinkled from the cold.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said, inspecting the purple scar tissue on my knuckles. ‘I’ve been out of it a long time.’

  Rachel looked down at the creaking, barnacled wood of the pier, as if it were representative of our precarious circumstances.

  I became aware of heavy footsteps coming our way down the pier from the terminal through the vibrations in the wood of the pontoon. We moved further into the shadows and watched the hulking shadow pass beneath each circle of light, giving away more information as he did so. His arms hung out at his sides, unable to close in to his body because of the size of his shoulders and chest and wore heeled boots that clip-clopped through the wind and a driver’s hat.

  ‘Ahoy there.’

  The Captain lifted his head to the light as he reached the last lamp, the hat not a driver's, but the same moth-bitten one he had been wearing in the Captain's Rest when I had first met him.

  ‘I thought you might like to go for a ride,’ he said, removing the pipe from his jacket pocket to fill it.

  The Captain looked more prepared for a voyage rather than a cruise, his long jacket lined with fur. I half-expected to be handed a harpoon, but instead he handed me a rope and told me to jump the gap between the dock and the ferry and let down the gangway.

  I looked at him, awaiting some modicum of assistance.

  ‘I'll pull in the ropes, you take a run up,’ the Captain said, pointing at me with his glowing pipe. ‘Do it now.’

  Once he had wrapped his oversized hands around the fat rope and hauled the ferry into the old tyres tied to the dock, I began my run up as instructed. I clattered my work brogues into the wooden beams of the dock one after the other and launched myself on to the deck of the Iris.

  He threw me a large key and I unlocked the gangway, which crashed on to the dockside.

  ‘The terminal's empty. Staff Christmas party in the Rose and Crown,’ the Captain said. ‘No-one will hear.’

  Once Rachel had made her way aboard, he followed behind her in a flurry of smoke, pipe embers, fur, and old-fashioned swear words directed at his bad leg. Rachel and I helped him to stay on his feet as he clutched his knee with one hand and rested the other on a banister. As he unfolded from his injured position, he seemed even larger than before, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.

  ‘To the bar, then,’ he said, the ferry rolling in the gale.

  As we sat round the bar, the Captain began telling a story. ‘We were all drinking,’ he said, raising his tankard a little. ‘And we found ourselves in the middle of a big storm in the dead of night. No-one dared venture above deck. Some began praying to their gods, some began drinking as much ale and brandy as they could manage, but the ship's carpenter, a Jamaican lad with a mess of hair down to his waist, just lit a smoke and took off his belt. He wrapped it around one of his hands, passed it through a beam and then around his other hand. It was only because of his idea with
the belt that a British sloop found us alive the following morning.’

  The Captain drained the remainder of his ale and slammed his tankard down. ‘And trouserless,’ he said.

  ‘I don't get it,’ I said. ‘Is there a moral to it?’

  ‘Moral? Yes, that's exactly what you need: more bloody morals,’ the Captain said.

  At the end of our climb, we reached the control room, which seemed miles away from the terminal as we pressed our noses up against the glass windows to look out past the darkness. It had stopped snowing heavily and above the neon glow of both cities either side of the water, we could clearly see the blanket of stars surrounding us.

  ‘You're nearer the eastern terminal, yes?’ the Captain said. ‘Would ye like a lift?’

  Rachel turned to me, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  The Captain ordered me downstairs to cast off the enormous ropes binding us to the dock, and positioned himself in the wheelhouse swivel chair, flicking all sorts of switches and buttons until the console came to life like an aerial view of the big city on the starboard side. Rachel and I clink-clanked down the metal staircase and cast off the giant ropes, before hurling them and ourselves back on to the ship. The engines rumbled to life, vibrating the deck beneath our feet as I searched the terminal for any signs of security personnel alerted to the sound. Rachel gasped when we began to move down the river. Beneath, the water smashed against the hull of the ship, stirred up by the wind. Rachel and I held each other: the ice and snow fended off by the thermonuclear reaction taking place in the space between our bodies.

  When we reached the eastern terminal, the river had calmed.

  ‘Last port of call, my lad.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Not for a while,’ the Captain said, wearing a smile that reminded me of my father.

  The breeze planted flakes of snow in the Captain's halo of white hair and the fur collar of his coat.

  ‘She's a beautiful girl, son. Don't lose her,’ the Captain said, looking out to the green and black waves frothing and crashing against each other, their sounds like the conversation of gods we would never understand. ‘Remember the story about the Jamaican?’